


So Tired You Don't Sleep at Night

by WritingQuill



Series: (30) Days of Johnlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, M/M, but just a little bit, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day two: cuddling </p><p>After the pool incident, Sherlock can't turn his brain off and sleep. John helps the best way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Tired You Don't Sleep at Night

**Author's Note:**

> Title of this comes from 'Song for You' by Alexi Murdoch. It's a beautiful song, and I personally think it sums up Sherlock's character perfectly. Give it a listen :)

Sherlock Holmes was tired. His head hurt like never before, making his eyes thump with pain and his fingers tremble. He couldn’t focus on anything, and he could feel his brain slowly rotting with fatigue. 

Sherlock Holmes hadn’t slept in weeks. Not properly anyway, because every time he drifted off, images of that sly smile and the smell of chlorine filled his dreams, waking him with a start and making it impossible for him to go back to sleep. 

Since the incident in the swimming pool, he hadn’t been able to stay one quiet moment without feeling that helplessness that he felt when John appeared clad in Semtex, he couldn’t shake off the dread and fear and hatred that took over him as soon as thoughts of Moriarty came into his head. 

Now, he was lying on his bed, trying again to sleep even though he knew it wouldn’t work. Too many things occupying his mind, too many _feelings_. Sherlock hated this feeling business, it was incredibly dull. And he was _so tired_. 

Judging by the light on the window, it was approximately four in the afternoon. He hadn’t got off the bed yet today, couldn’t be bothered. He was so tired. There was a knock on the door and Sherlock lifted his head slightly to catch John turning the handle and stepping in warily. 

‘Sherlock?’ he asked, his eyes looking around the room and finally landing at the consulting detective. ‘Sherlock, are you alright?’ 

Sherlock shrugged and let his head slump back onto the pillow. His eyes were unfocused and he _couldn’t_ think. For the first time in his life, not sleeping was worse. 

John walked over to his bed and Sherlock felt the mattress dip a little as his flatmate settled himself by the foot of the bed. He cleared his throat and patted the mattress slightly, straightening the fitted sheet a bit. He looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock could feel the pity. He hated pity — pity was a useless sentiment, noticing someone was feeling bad but being too cowardly to actually do anything about it, or not caring enough. He didn’t need John’s pity, and was going to snarl so when he looked into John’s eyes and saw nothing of the sort. John felt… concern. He was… concerned? For Sherlock… 

Sherlock lifted his head a bit more and blinked. John’s hand hovered over his ankle but he refrained from touching. 

‘How long has it been since you’ve last slept?’ John asked. Wonderful, pragmatic John, always to the point. 

‘A full night?’ John nodded. ‘Ten days.’ Blue eyes widened and the hovering hand landed on Sherlock’s ankle. 

‘Since the pool…’ John murmured, probably only to himself but Sherlock’s heard it. ‘You can’t sleep at all?’ 

Sherlock sat up. ‘No! Of course I bloody can’t!’ he growled. ‘I can’t sleep, every time I close my eyes I smell chlorine and I—‘ 

‘Hey, hey, all right. It’s fine, I get it,’ John said, squeezing Sherlock’s ankle ever-so-slightly. ‘I understand, it’s been hard for me, too. Falling asleep, that is.’ At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, John chuckled. ‘Yeah, I can sleep, yeah, but it’s because I’m used to the nightmares.’ 

Right. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder induced nightmares. 

‘How do I sleep, then?’ Sherlock asked, and John didn’t stop for a second to gloat over the fact that he was the one with more knowledge now. John would never do that. 

‘There’s not sure way. I mean, Ella taught me some techniques, but I have personally always found it easier to fall asleep next to someone else.’ 

At that, Sherlock looked at John’s face, searching for any tells that he was joking, but he wasn’t. He had a small smile on his lips as his thumb brushed Sherlock’s ankle lightly. He stood and moved to sit by Sherlock’s head and leant against the headboard. 

‘Is this really going to work?’ Sherlock asked, annoyed that he was the one who didn’t _know_ now. Not knowing was dreadful, how could people go around living their lives everyday without knowing things? 

‘Give it a go, at least. Can’t do any damage, can it?’ John said, his voice trembling a bit but covered with gentle humour and amusement. He wanted so bad for Sherlock to be okay that Sherlock felt himself go less tense, feeling the points where his body touched John’s. His shoulder touching John’s hip, his right arm, John’s leg. As if he’d just realised the position he was in, John moved downwards, lying fully next to Sherlock — he had already toed off his shoes and was now only wearing a pair of dark brown chinos and a soft woollen jumper (Sherlock suspected there was a white shirt underneath it). John turned to face Sherlock’s side, tucking a hand under his cheek. He sighed. 

‘Close your eyes now,’ he said, and Sherlock obliged. As soon as that horrible (imaginary! imaginary!) smell reached his nostrils, he flinched, and next he felt Johns’ arm around his torso, squeezing him slightly. Grounding. Firm. _John_. Safe. Baker Street. 

The smell was gone, replaced by the gentle scent of John’s soap and anti-septic. He was safe. Smell of anti-septic. Safe. Anti-septic. Widespread introduction in surgery by Joseph Lister in 1867. Germ theory of putrefaction. The Contagiousness of Puerperal Fever. Eighteen-forty-three. December nineteenth, eighteen-forty-three is the publication date of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, published by—

‘Sherlock, stop thinking,’ John’s voice comes from far away, taking Sherlock out of his Mind Palace, placing him back in Baker Street, surrounded by John. His lovely John. He breathed in, inhaling that comforting scent once more. His eyes felt heavy even closed and he could feel John’s breath on the side of his neck. 

Sherlock turned. He wanted to bury himself in John and feel warm and safe. John seemed startled at first, but he moved, lying on his back as Sherlock draped himself across the wool-clad chest, his nose at the crook of John’s neck, touching that warm skin. Sherlock had never felt safer. 

And there, as John’s arms enveloped him tightly, Sherlock fell asleep.


End file.
